11am

I had begun to fidget openly as I wondered who would be the first to join me in the First Class bonkette. Would it be Sebastian Always demanding cold, hard cash? Doesn’t he realise I am a poor man, eeking out a living on my moderate private income and devoting my life to building a collection of valuable items which the nation feel better for knowing are protected even if I would use physical violence if any of them actually attempted to see them. Or would it be Ian Devine, no doubt flushed from the exertion of securing his tricycle but able to pay his own debts like a sensible man? Luckily, I heard the tell tale sound of human flesh squeezing through a wooden architrave and was convinced it was my colleague.

“Dennis Brent” he panted, “I have had a deuce of a time securing my tricycle.”

“What befell you, Ian Devine?” I asked, keen for something to distract me from the pain I could still feel from the recent threat of excessive expenditure.

“My first thought was to chain Bessie to a tree” he continued.

“A sound idea” I commended.

“Then I thought about how easy it is, in real terms, to fell a tree if one has an axe or a saw, or if one just happens to lean against it.”

“A good point” I agreed, having seen Ian Devine being escorted out of Sherwood Forest by security.

“Then I considered attaching her to a lamp post.”

“Very sensible indeed, Ian Devine.”

“Then I thought ‘no’. I have recently, for research purposes, finished reading a book called “(S)inanimate Objects” in which the author explains the many and various deviant uses of ordinary objects that may be found in ones home.”

“But surely a lamp post isn’t an object found in the home” I queried.

“The author extended his brief onto the pavement immediately in front of the house” said Ian Devine coldly. He never liked it when I picked him up on pathetically stupid errors.

“And he covered lamp posts?”

“He went into graphic detail about the things a p-e-r-v-e-r-t can do with an ordinary lamp post. I would have a spasm if anything unfortunate were to be splashed onto Bessie so a lamp post was out of the question.”

“I am beginning to understand your tardiness” I told him.

“There seemed to be only one possible solution”

“Personally I can think of two but mine is a higher brain than yours” I said modestly. “Which did you choose?”

“I went into Mrs Cornhole’s fabric store and purchased a green cloth. I then covered Bessie with this cloth and thereby convinced the proles that she was not a tricycle but a small hillock.”

“A marvellous idea.”

“And I have a signed statement from Mrs Cornhole that I can get my money back if the cloth is returned in perfect working order within twenty eight days.”

“Excellent.”

“What were your two solutions?” he asked.

“The first was to lock your tricycle in the garage at Brent Towers.”

“Which would’ve necessitated me walking all the way back here.”

“I said it was a solution, I didn’t mention anything about you not having to make sacrifices. The second was to fold the tricycle into a more manageable package and store it in a suitcase.”

“Mine doesn’t happen to be a collapsible tricycle.”

“Again, I said it was a solution. If you were too mean to pay the extra twelve pounds for the collapsible model then I cannot be blamed for that.”

“You know full well it was fourteen pounds extra and you advised me to save the money and buy myself an extra pie.”

“I forget the details – I am only interested in chronicling fascinating matters and, with all due respect, the minutiae of your life do not fall within my purview.”

“Ah – this must be the gentleman wishing to purchase the… First Class tickets” said Sebastian Always, popping his head round the side of the bonkette as if it were on a pole.

“Yes – I am Ian Devine” said Ian Devine proudly.

“Your tickets come to twelve thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds and ninety seven pence. Will you be paying cash or by credit card?”

“I will be paying by postal order like any sensible person would” said Ian Devine.

“Very good sir. I have the documentation here if you would be so good as to sign it.”

Ian Devine scrawled his absurdly pompous and florid signature on the document.

“Could I ask sir to initial his signature, just to authenticate it?”

Ian Devine initialled it, still with pomp and floridity.

“And now would sir sign this form which certifies that sir’s signature is genuine?”

Ian Devine once more let rip with his ridiculously elaborate signature.

“And finally would sir initial that signature.”

He complied.

“And now if sir would sign this box on the original document to say that sir has signed the signature verification form?”

He agreed.

“And finally if sir would initial his signature.”

He obeyed.

“And finally if sir would sign to say that he has signed the two previous forms of his own free will.”

He did as he was told. He even initialled this last signature as a pre-emptive measure.

“Sir has initiative – one can easily see why he is able to travel… First Class.”

“Can I have my tickets now?” asked Ian Devine.

“They will take a little time – our regular calligrapher is visiting his sick spaniel so we are having to take turns in the pen room. But your tickets should be ready as soon as you leave here and let me away to my quill.”

“We’ll call in shortly” I said, keen to rejoin the conversation in an important capacity.

“Please do so, sir, and ask for Sebastian. Oh, and mind your step on the way out – a small hillock appears to have appeared on the pavement. I expect it’s just a little plate tectonics but it would be a shame if the sirs were injured shortly before travelling… First Class. Good day.”